


Everything Left Unsaid

by darlingdestiny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Suicide, and Lestrade, and Mycroft, mentions of Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingdestiny/pseuds/darlingdestiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly, everything faded to black. One last thought went through my mind. Goodbye, John.<br/>Then—nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Left Unsaid

**Sherlock's Point of View**

The world was spinning. My hands were shaking. My head was throbbing. It was so loud inside of my head. I needed quiet! Quiet. Quiet. I just needed some quiet. I reached for my phone; numbly typing out the words I could never say. I pressed end. I tried again. I pressed end again.

Type.

End.

Type.

End.

Type.

End.

I threw the phone.

Blindly, I reached for the syringe filled with clear liquid, liquid heaven—liquid peace. I knew if I didn’t act right now, I would lose the nerve. I plunged the needle into my vein. My mind went quiet. Peace. The world slowed, and my hands were steady. Everything was going fuzzy. So very fuzzy. But it was quiet, and quiet was good. Slowly, everything faded to black. One last thought went through my mind. _Goodbye, John._

Then—nothing.

* * *

**John's Point of View**           

            It’s been two months. Two months since I saw him last. Two months since I last heard his voice. Two months since I last looked into his eyes, heard his laughter, two months of heartache—for the second time. There was no note, not this time around. There wasn’t an explanation. No one knew if it was an accident, or not, and we’ll never know.

I couldn’t bring myself to enter the flat. It was too empty, too cold. His presence still lingered, taunting me. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t cleaned out the flat, and Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to do it. None of his men were sent either, too impersonal. So, I did it. I couldn’t make Mrs. Hudson do it, and after looking into Mycroft’s eyes, I knew I couldn’t do that him either.

            That’s how I ended up sitting on the floor of 221B Baker Street, staring blankly into the distance. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the sun was setting, and I arrived in the morning. Most of the items have long been put into boxes. All his books, and his notes, and his chemistry set. I have yet to enter his room. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go into that room and see for myself that he wasn’t there, because that meant that this was all real. So I sat. Just staring at the wall, I was half waiting for him to barge into the flat, telling me that we had a case. Going on about how it’s terribly _dull_ , and that even a simpleton could solve it. Then, we would go off to the scene, and he would solve it. I’d praise him, something that he didn’t get near enough of. I would tell him how wonderful, and brilliant, and extraordinary he is—he was. Afterwards, we’d get takeaway, and I’d have to force him to eat, only to have him eat from my plate. If I hadn’t already cried for two straight months straight, this would be the part where I’d fall apart.

            I squinted when the sun reflected off of something and shone into my eye. Shielding the light from my eyes, I looked for the source of the light. It came from under the couch. I blindly stuck my hand under it until I grasped something. I gasped, my heart stopped. It was his phone. The battery was missing. It was thrown. I reached under the couch again until I found what I was looking for. When I found the battery, I put it back in, popped on the cover. Instantly, the phone turned itself on. I stared at it, debating whether I wanted to know the potential information I would find. Apart of me screamed at me to throw it in the bin and never look back. However, there was another part of me—a much larger part—that wanted, no, _needed_ answers.

            There were fifteen missed calls. Ten of which were from me. There were two new text messages, both from Lestrade. I went to his last sent messages. I was surprised to find ten drafts, all addressed to me.

* * *

_John, i’m sorry, i need you._

_plea se come, John._

_i’m scared. i need your help._

_the room is spinning, and i’m shaking._

_i love you._

_it’s so te mpti ng, i nee d it, Joh n._

_help, J ohn, help. pleas.e._

_i’m so sorr y, it was ne ver suppo sed to co me to t his._

_John, thank you for putting up with me. than k yo u f or nev er gi ving up on me. i’m sorrry that i’m not strong enough. i need to go now, John. it’s tim e for m e to go now, John. goo dbbye._

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck, this hurt to write. I'm sorry.


End file.
